But some eager, figeting, worldlings came one day,
Moved into the house on a heavenly morning in May;
Of course the ghost could do nothing but move away....
Lord, the cutting and hammering, planing and scrubbing and suds,
Lord, the paint and the polish, the grates and the curtains and duds!
The new-new beds, the cleanness and trimness and all,
I looked for the ghost in the mirror that shone in the hall;
I looked for her round the curve of the varnished stair,
I searched and called for her, wistfully, everywhere....
“And what will you do, dear ghost,” was my whispered cry,
“And where will you live your shadowed revery?
Where do ghosts go when no longer they have a home,
Do they pile their effects in a van and begin to roam?
Shall you take to a haystack or sleep in the church’s dome?”
Whether she heard me and thought it could not be true,
Or guessed that she might not trust me, the ghost made no ado;
Though the pale grey thing may really have cared that I knew,
At all events, she moved ... and her shadowy store
Of belongings exists for the world no more....
That house by the road, more correct, I think, than most,
Has lost its chief charm.... It no longer has a ghost.
SONG OF SCARLET.
The black-alder berries are thick this year,
(It’s going to be cold);
Their scarlet trinkets, their necklaces bold
Hang on the shivering wind-swept year,
(It’s going to be cold).
Now, the Commons are bare and the leaves whirl around,
(It’s going to be cold);
Like little brown sparrows flicked over the around
(It’s going to be cold);
But the black alder-berries like rubies embeaded
String out on the heath where the milkweed has seeded,
(It’s going to be cold).
Now the wind feels the blind and the roads look severe,
(It’s going to be cold);
And the locust tree’s horned pods rattle and shake,
And the small bony branches grow brittle and break ...
But vitality lingers in reindeer moss,
And near the holm holly the thorn-berries toss,
The bright alder-berries gleam saucy and bold,
Pile up your wood-fires—who cares if it’s cold?